


between slate and sea

by Alcheminx



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Implied Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcheminx/pseuds/Alcheminx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m the weak one.” He confesses, voice breaking around the edges. “I was always the weak one. I’m not the one who deserves to be here.”<br/>“That’s not you.” Jean says, quiet like he’s as afraid to say the words as Armin is to hear them. “Not anymore.” </p><p>In which Armin finally reaches the ocean, but it is not all he expected it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between slate and sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that started as a simple character and relationship study, and somehow bloomed into a 11,000+ word mess. Regardless, I hope that you can come to enjoy that mess, and come to appreciate two of my favorite SNK characters and their friendship dynamic as much as I do. 
> 
> If you read this, thank you so much for your support in advance, and if it turns out to not be your cup of tea - that's okay, too.

It is always the same.

The jagged edge of cobblestone beneath the soles of his feet, the steady rush of brook that was once flourishing and free, now built into the edges of stone and slab. It is just another secret kept underneath covered bridge, just another pathway that somehow always made him feel lost despite all it promised to connect.

There is no thought, no hesitation, no caution in his step when his feet already know where to carry him. He does not have to acknowledge the murky stream of blue, the rust of jib rock, the worn out gravel. It will always be just as it has always been. It will always be exactly where it is supposed to be.

Even amongst ink and parchment, here within the cracking spine of age old books - an expanse of unattainable sea, a forest of endless verdant green, a mountain built from slate and snow remains undisturbed.

There are a pair of heterochromatic eyes that somehow happen to entrap them all at once, crinkling at the edges, etched with the permanence of a too-wide smile. It is accompanied by the soft sway of unruly and amber curl in the afternoon breeze, the blossoming bruises of blue and black on bony kneecaps, the promises that it is all safe here.

So safe, even, that when he remembers the words that come alongside it all, hears them trickle into his memory, they are just as they always were. Molded into permanence.

Yes. It is always the same.

There is an, “I promise” from the boys’ lips, ferocity in his words that he can feel forming as goosebumps on the pale of his own arms, and then: “You and I, Armin. We’re going to make it. We’re going to see the outside world.”

A stretch of arm always follows, thrown out on either side of him, acknowledging their spot hunched among decaying stone and polluted waters as though it is the entire world. There is a sturdiness in his chest as he puffs it outwards, a shield against all that is unknown, and Armin can hear the excited hammer of his heartbeat beneath the straining cloth every time, erratic in the otherwise quiet distance between them.

“Right.” He agrees, because it is always his answer, even here. A swift nod of his head and the tightening of his knuckles around the cracking edges of another world, etched out on the very surface of what was once forest itself, it is the only answer he could ever imagine himself giving. The only answer appropriate of the first promise he ever chose to believe in.

It is the same promise that he feels, whispered silently, as the boy made of forest and sea stands guard before him, bloody and bruised from a fight that is not his. Was never his to begin with. He is not the star here, simply a barrier between what is and what could have been, and Armin is too perceptive to not catch the real reason for his safety standing just beyond the boys shoulders. She is thin, too thin, and looks like she, too, may have been born from the universe itself.

She is inky black hair against stark blue sky, sanguine throat among the drab alleyways of the city, and he knows in the moment that he cannot forget her even if he dared to try. It is his first impression, grand for such a young mind, but it proves itself to be true with the way she traps herself within his dreams - always waiting, always watching.

She is a promise of her own, a guardian of black and cardinal, and he is not afraid to believe in her either – is not surprised to realize that her and the boy are one, that their promises mean the same thing.

There had been so many promises to believe in, and yet this is the one he chooses, time and time again, lifetime after lifetime.

He could have picked anything else. The endless letters from his parents, read aloud from the scratchy throat of his grandfather, disguised to be beautiful with their promises of return. It could have so easily been them, but he was not a naïve boy. They only managed to be beautiful until he discovered what strokes of ink along canvas really meant for himself, until he recognized the significance of dates, until he realized that things can’t keep being beautiful if they stop showing up.

He feels it like a shard of glass piercing into his stomach. He decides that it is the last time he almost allows himself to believe in anything.

It is why, months later, when he finds himself gripping the edge of his grandfather’s old hat, straw rough beneath the soft pads of his fingertips, he realizes that somehow, amongst all of the fiery pain and guilt collecting in his stomach with the news, that it still doesn’t burn as badly as it could have. He realizes, too quickly, that things can’t kill if you never give them the weapon to do so - if you never have hope in them in the first place.

It is easy to swear yourself off of what hurts you. It is teaching yourself to risk getting hurt again that is hard.

He chooses to believe in them without a second thought, anyway.

 

* * *

 

When Armin wakes, it is too the thump of cold cobblestone beneath his back, to the crack of skull off stone, to the echo of his own voice shattering the dream. The view above him is nothing but ceiling, grey on more grey, no signs of murky stream and endless forest to lull him back into fantasy.

Instead, there is just the harsh light from sunrise, trickling in without remorse, cutting stripes of orange across jib rock. It burns his eyes, such a startling contrast to the dark confines of his head, and he is forced to untangle himself from the mess of bedsheets to shield himself from it.

This is not new.

His body is coated with a thick layer of sweat and goosebumps, conflicted between shivering or overheating, and he can’t shake the feeling that he is outside of himself, watching a vessel of human skin and bone and blood scramble into life. He remembers, vaguely, that this foreign mess of skin is supposed to inhabit _him_ , and his fingers tingle in response.

He feels awful, like his body is winning in a fight he never asked to participate in, and as he tries to pull himself into standing position his knees wobble with the threat of collapsing right underneath him. He has to take a few moments to steady himself against the wall, untrusting of his own ability, and in the end it is a drawn out, pathetic stupor to the door. He is suddenly incredibly thankful for the wall underneath his fingertips, cold and uneven, as he lets it guide him towards the doorway.

There are still images dancing beneath his eyes, wine and turquoise, black and copper, and he is desperate to shake them out. His throat feels swollen around the edges, his lungs fighting against him with every intake of air, and he does not want to think about why, does not want to understand how many of his secrets ending up tumbling out of his mouth in the middle of the night.

It is a long and endless fumble of fingers on cobblestone, of feet collapsing over one another, until he reaches the doorway, feels the wood warm under his touch. His eyes have barely adjusted, assaulted by the heat of the morning and he is forced to fumble around for the latch on his door until he finally manages to yank it open. It is darker here, sunrise not high enough to filter its way into the small expanse of window at the end of the hall, and the rest of the barracks are quiet.

Everyone else is still sleeping, Armin knows from experience, but he can just make out the form of Jean’s bed in the room across from his, the sheets still pulled tight and perfectly untouched. It is empty, undisturbed as the empty corridors, and he shuts his eyes in frustration, pressing his hand against the persistent beginnings of a headache blooming at his temple.

He knows this routine, doesn’t even understand why he’s bothered peering into the room across from him other than sheer hope, and so he merely pulls on his boots and exits the barracks instead.

 

* * *

 

It is on the particularly bad mornings, on the ones where Armin can feel his bones complain with every step he takes, that he wishes that the barn were closer.

This, as it turns out, is one of those mornings.

By the time it comes into view, a mess of cobblestone and rose stained paneling, he is about ready to collapse onto the ground underneath him. It is an old building, possibly the oldest on the training base itself, but still he is moved by it every time it slips into view, forever entranced by its persisting charm. It is immovable, even with all of its cracking edges, and Armin can’t help but feel as though it is a symbol of everything that he could never be and everything he’s ever wanted all at once.

When he finally arrives at the door it is already halfway cracked open, Jean’s backside just visible from the entrance, and Armin feels a climbing sense of calm at the familiarity. He is busy tending to the horses, caught up within his task, and Armin takes the chance to steady his nerves with a breath, hoping to come across more collected than he really is.

He enters and takes a seat, wordlessly, atop a discarded stack of hay closest to the door. The damp wood panel of the barn leaves a cold spot on the back of his shirt as he supports himself against it, but somehow he finds it to be grounding amongst the stirring nervousness in his stomach.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he kicks a leg out in front of him, watching the stretch of leather across his worn boot, the shift of trained muscle moving along his thigh, and just as quickly steadies it with the realization that it is no longer the form of a boy. For some reason, the thought unnerves him all over again, and so he opens his mouth with the intent of distracting himself.

“You didn’t come to bed last night.” He finally murmurs, and his lips feel chapped and foreign as they form their way around the syllables, an after effect of befriending silence for too long.

Jean turns his head half a fraction, a small acknowledgement, before he directs his attention back towards the horse in front of him. His movements are cautious and gentle as he mindlessly moves a brush through the thick of her mane, something that would have been uncharacteristic alongside all of his previous angry youth, and he falls back into pattern quickly, wordlessly, his hand roaming gently across the dark expanse of her neck, fingertips tracing the splattering of white freckles dotting her coat. For a moment, Armin is afraid that he’s not going to get a response at all.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He finally answers, low rumble of his voice breaking the tension and catching Armin off guard.

He forces himself to sit up at attention at the words, stilling the nervous jolt of his leg and peering intently at the side of Jean’s face. He’s still facing away, voice slightly muffled by the distance between them, and Armin is forced to focus on the line of his jaw instead, clenched and littered with day old stubble.

The mare stomps her foot, impatient, and Armin notes the wide, nervous blink of her dark eyes as she looks between him and Jean. There is a challenge poised in the depth of them, a concern that matches Armin’s own screaming: _try again_.

He does.

“Couldn’t sleep, or didn’t sleep?”

The back of Jean’s back goes rigid, the stretch of muscle ever more so visible beneath the thin cotton of his day clothes, and the mare whinnies loudly in response.

He turns, finally, and aims his gaze directly towards Armin, the striking topaz of his eyes looking disturbingly dark in the dim light of the barn. He furrows his eyebrows, contemplative, and then opens his mouth with a bark. “It’s barely sunrise, Armin. Don’t think I don’t know why you’re here, too.”

“You never sleep anymore.” He criticizes, choosing to ignore Jean’s attempt at defense.

“You sleep too much.” Jean spits back.

“Jean.” Armin levels, eyes drifting to the curl of fist Jean is battling against, still a reflex after all of these years. A flicker of a past long gone, a person long changed. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

Something changes in Jeans eyes, a shifting of light, a snap of recognition, and then he’s furrowing his brows for an entirely different reason, his mouth twisted in turmoil. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, turning back to the horse in front of him. There is a faint dusting of embarrassment along his cheekbones.

He lets his hand uncoil, slips the other free from the tangle of the mares mane, and Armin rolls his head onto his own shoulder, unaffected by the outburst. He casts his gaze up towards where the first semblance of light is starting to filter its way into the skylight, basking everything in soft gold, and lets his eyes slip shut underneath it all, the shimmering warmth dancing behind his eyelids.

“Was it the dream?” Comes Jean’s voice a beat later, now as warm as the heat on Armin’s eyelashes, and he feels his lip curl into a sad smile at the tone.

He doesn’t say anything, listens to the quiet rattle of the mares harness as she shakes her head, the leveled breathing of his distant counterpart, the soft rustle of far off trees in the morning wind. In all of their realness, somehow he still feels himself wishing they were the sounds of crinkling pages and murky streams instead.

“Armin.” Comes his voice again, much closer than before, and he finally allows his eyes to flicker open, takes in the image of Jean standing beside him, all worried grimace and dusty yellows.

He stretches his arm out, inviting, and pats the remaining stretch of hay beside him. Jean shoots him one look, all knowing, before he settles in beside him, back pressed against the decaying wood, long legs bent at the knees to compensate for his height. He lets his head rest against the panel behind them, hitting it with an exasperated _thump_ before his eyes slip closed.

Armin looks to the column of his throat, watches it bob around an anxious swallow before he speaks again. “They’re always nice until you wake up.” He confesses.

Jean laughs, too strangled to be genuine. “Not mine. That’s why I just prefer to avoid them.”

Armin has the slightest idea. There are too many nights he can remember in the midst of training, after a particularly difficult parole, where his dreams come too close to reality. The smell of melting flesh, the crunching of snapping bone, the blood disguised as rust that sinks its way into your skin and breeds beneath your nailbeds - the kind of reminder that doesn’t come off even after you scrub your skin right down to vein itself.

They are the kind of dreams that don’t deserve the title of dreams at all, that turn the comfort of a fire into the symbol of lost comrades, that morph your friend’s laughter into nothing more than agonized screams. He knows those kind of dreams, too. They are rarer these days, an after effect of becoming desensitized to the horror of the real world, and he is oddly thankful for that.

He knows that Jean has too much reality trapped within those dreams to ever truly escape them.

“Isn’t it worse?” Jean asks, voice suddenly quiet. “Isn’t it worse to indulge yourself in something you know you’re never going to be able to have again?” He picks at a free thread on the hem of his pants, nervous, and Armin waits for him to ask the real question. “Doesn’t it hurt sleeping away the life you have in return for a fictional one? What’s even the point of it all?”

“I’m not sure.” Armin answers, because he isn’t. He doesn’t know how to begin to explain it to Jean, isn’t sure if he even understands it himself. Despite his youth, he has learned that getting hurt isn’t so bad, not as long as it promises a chance at momentary happiness.

There is a lot he could say, he supposes, but instead he peels his eyes away from the side of Jean’s face in favor of the barn wall. His throat still feels dry, neglected from the immediate need to come here, and it’s uncomfortable as he swallows nervously around it. 

He thinks about Jean, thinks about how he may have become a solider in all these passing years, but somehow he himself had only ever become a shell. He still wasn’t sure if that made him apart of the strong, or just another one of the weak. He wasn’t sure if there was even a difference anymore, anyway.

Yes, there is a lot he could say, but he is tired of talking about himself.

“So what,” He tries again instead, because he is genuinely curious about their differences, albeit how afraid he is to recognize them. “Is it better to escape it all together? To keep yourself awake until you’re not seeing straight just because you think you deserve the pain?”

Jean pinches his face, as crestfallen as the hollowness in his eyes as he curls in on himself. He is the picture of worn out, the scars trailing his body with permanence are nothing in comparison to the dull amber that was once just fiery spark. “They say that it’s supposed to get easier, you know.” He says instead, diverting the question, and Armin almost feels bad for even asking it in the first place.

“Maybe.” He muses, genuinely contemplative, and lifts himself up from the safety of the haystack. The bones in his back crack angrily, loud about their mistreatment, but Armin ignores it in favor of moving his legs towards the barn door. There is the quiet chattering of birds outside, just waking from their slumber, and as he pulls open the heavy wood panel he is greeted with kaleidoscope sky, early yellows and oranges melting into an unfaltering blue. The soft gush of wind that rushes in afterwards is warm, but it doesn’t fail to rise the pale splattering of hair along his arms, his body long learnt that the promise of a beautiful day meant nothing out here.

“Tomorrow-“ Jean begins, voice softer with the distance between them, the chaos of the wildlife outdoors, but Armin cuts him off quickly, the stammering of his heartbeat too loud. He is not ready for this conversation, this dose of reality.

“It doesn’t though, does it Jean?” He asks, choosing to ignore it instead, choosing to take control of the conversation again.

Jean faces him, fully for the first time all morning, and blinks steadily at him. He is still perched anxiously atop the abandoned haystack, lip caught between his teeth, and Armin can barely stand to look at him, to know that his words have caused that turmoil. He doesn’t speak, long trained in this quiet form of communication between them, and so Armin brings himself to continue. “It…doesn’t ever get any easier, does it? You just have to act like it does.” He tries.

It is not a question, because Armin already knows the answer to it. It is in the way Jean’s face doesn’t change expression, nothing outside of a quiet jaw clench, a tightening of his lip that would otherwise go unnoticed. The answer is in the pain that Armin can feel him physically suppress, in all the words he’ll never dare to actually say but he can hear escape in the middle of the night, sobs muffled but not quite enough by the narrow hallway between the two of them.

“No.” Jean answers, voice wobbly around the words, and Armin casts his gaze to a particularly ruined spot in the barn door, splintering and damp in the warm air. He runs the pad of his finger over it, timid, feeling the spike of untreated wood greet his skin. “It doesn’t.”

Armin nods slowly, attention still directed at the decaying door, watching a few pieces crumble beneath his palm. It is not new knowledge. Why does it burn so deeply?

He lifts his head up, directs his gaze once more towards Jean who is still looking at him pensively, hollow of his eyes now slightly darker with the threat of tears Armin knows he won’t let fall. Armin blinks at him, steady, a quiet thank you that he doesn’t trust his throat to say properly, and Jean offers him a sad smile in return, a simple twitch of his mouth.

He pulls himself away from his face again, feeling his throat constrict, a warning, and then pulls the door closed behind him as he steps out into the light.

 

* * *

 

The following night is oddly quiet. When Armin wakes, the only view is the expanse of cobblestone above his bed, as undisturbed as his form still situated safely on the bunk, stark white of the sheets still wrapped firmly around his body. It almost seems cruel.

There are no bright flashes of sanguine littering his mind, no stark contrast of wild raven hair against pale sky. There are no memories of eyes that hold the forests, the sea, the entire world within them – no bruised limbs or crooked smiles to taunt him. It is a small miracle, one that Armin can’t bring himself to be thankful for, but as he untangles himself from the undisturbed bedsheets and plants his feet on the cold stone of his room, he can’t help but think it’s the universes own way of saying goodbye. One of them ought to.

It is strange. Not waking up in a chaos of boy – _man_ – and sheet is not something that Armin is used to. Not something that he can remember. His body is dry as he changes into uniform, so different from its usual sweaty, panic stricken state, and his hair is not a wild mess of golden locks as he tames them all to the confines of a stubby ponytail. It sits heavy against the back of his neck, and as he tucks a stray strand behind his ear he makes a mental note to deal with the length soon.

He makes an effort to splash his face with water for good measure, shaking himself out of his dazed state, and then with one swift pat of his pant pocket he is pulling open his door and stepping into the corridor.

It must be just past sunrise with the way the light is filtering into the small space, there is a swirl of dust that Armin can see dancing a few feet in front of him that Levi will without a doubt get on their case for later, but he chooses to ignore it for now in favor of peering into the room opposite of him. It is closed, which is unusual at this hour, and Armin thinks twice about lifting a hand to knock before he is pushing it open slowly. It creaks with the effort, an after effect of age, and then Armin is left staring at the unmade state of Jean’s empty bed. A small smile tugs at the edges of his lips with the realization.

“Armin!” A shrill voice comes from further down the hallway, and he is forced to shut the door, satisfied with his newfound knowledge, and make his way towards the voice.

Sasha greets him, her usual enthusiasm laced with nervousness, in the kitchen doorway.

“Good morning, Sasha.” He greets, voice gentle around the syllables, and her mouth twitches slightly at the tone. Armin doesn’t blame her for expecting him to be more of a wreck.

She blinks owlishly at him in return, as if now at a loss for what to do, before casting her gaze towards Connie. He has busied himself with breakfast but stops mid bite to blink back at her, head nearly inside of his soup bowl, and a slab of broccoli falls off his utensil as he stalls.

Armin is not sure if it is just the morning light, but they look suddenly look older to him, like another reminder of lost time. The fine stubble of Connie’s head has begun to grow back, now a short layer of inky black, and Sasha’s face is framed by the short cut of a bob, chestnut color illuminated underneath the harsh sun. There are other things – higher cheekbones, higher statures, permanent scars that Armin finds himself noticing for the first time too. Perhaps it is the first time he allowed himself to notice it at all – the realization always felt a little too close to defeat for his liking. Too much acceptance of the now with too little emphasis on the past.

The past seemed far too important to toss aside just yet.

There is an exhausting minute of silent communication between Connie and Sasha, and then Sasha is nervously directing her gaze back towards Armin and forming her lips around a half-hearted smile. “Would you care to eat with us?” She asks.

Armin shakes his head, persistent besides the gnawing in his stomach. He can’t quite shake the image of Jean’s unmade bed out of his mind and the burning weight nestling within the pocket of his pants. There are far more important things to attend to right now. His needs are the last of his concern, however careless that may be.

Sasha’s smile falters, her eyes fluttering to Armin’s torso as it lets out another annoyed growl, and she spares one last glance at Connie before returning her attention to Armin. “At least…take something with you, okay?” She tries, voice weak as she pushes a baguette into his palm, and Armin feels affection swell in his chest.

“Thank you, Sasha.” He nods, tucks the loaf safely at his side. Her eyes go misty around the edges as she watches him, and then she’s turning on her heel and taking her place back beside Connie at the table.

He follows her direction and begins to turn on his own heel, halfway out the door until Connie speaks up beside him, has the soles of his boots squeaking in protest at the sudden stop.

“Armin.”

“Yes?”

Connie looks at him, an internal battle dancing underneath the slate of his eyes. “Jean is in the-“ He begins, but then he’s biting his own tongue, stopping the words before they’re even fully formed. Armin looks at him in response, curious even though he already knows what Connie is about to tell him - _warn him_ \- because Jean’s whereabouts are not even a question these days. Just another thing that is understood without words.

“Good luck.” He says instead, sincerity winning the battle within his gaze. “We’re going to do our best today.” He rushes the rest of his sentence out, returning to his soup with ferocity to cover the words, and again Armin can’t help but feel the mixture of pride and affection swelling in his chest. He wants to give them the reaction that they both deserve, to break the shell that he has cast around himself for so long, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Not here. Not now. They both know that he is breaking – maybe the silent knowing is better than the admittance, anyway. It is all that he can offer them regardless.

“Thank you.” He says again, a broken record, two words containing far less meaning than they should, and they both give him a feeble nod of understanding. There is silence as he exits the kitchen, travels down the winding corridor, and this time when he finally exits the stuffy barracks there are no voices shouting out to him.

 

* * *

 

Jean is not far. He never is.

It is always the same place. A winding path thick with underbrush, loud with the thundering sound of overhead wildlife, and then an opening of field - vivid green and littered with crossed planks of decaying wood.

Armin takes one step onto the trail leading to it, already knowing where he needs to go, but then bumps directly into solid heat, reaching his hands out to steady himself with a bundle of mossy coloured fabric. The form jolts, causing Armin to lose his grip, and then he is blinking up at a flustered Jean, the whole of his boots and the knees of his usually white pants covered in mud.

“You’ve got to stop doing that to me!” He yelps, voice more startled than angry, and Armin looks at him in feigned apology. He can feel a bruise forming on his forehead, an after effect of Jean startling too quickly and bumping him, and he places his hand on top of it, rubbing the newfound tenderness.

“ _You’ve_ got to stop doing that to _me_.” He corrects.

“I was coming back.” Jean grumbles, shouldering past Armin and making his way back towards the barracks.

Armin watches him storm off for half a second before bounding after him, feet moving overtime to compensate for their difference in stride.

“I know you were.” He says, finally close enough to be heard again. There was no chance that Jean would be anywhere other than his side today. Not today.

“Then you don’t have to come find me every time. It’s embarrassing.”

“Sometimes I worry that you’ll stop coming back, though.” Armin admits, voice quiet, and Jean stops again. He grinds to a sudden halt in front of him, and Armin has to struggle to put on the breaks so he doesn’t ram straight into his backside. His back is tense, muscles knotting up beneath his uniform jacket, and Armin feels his eyebrows furrow in worry.

“You know what’s stupid?” Jean tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding like an exasperated wheeze. “I know that there aren’t any bodies. I know that. Everyone knows that. It’s just…just another dumb way to commemorate them.”

His shoulders shake, just a fraction, and then he’s turning on his heel to face Armin again, hair falling forward into his eyes as he looks at the muddy path beneath them. The deep caverns of black and blue beneath his eyes are shallower today, and Armin finds himself again thinking of his unmade bed. “It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. But I can’t stop myself from coming.” He hisses.

Armin shakes his head, desperate, before he realizes that Jean can’t even see the action. He wraps his hand around the bony expanse of his wrist instead, pulling it gently until Jean is forced to make eye contact with him. “You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone, Jean.” He murmurs, quieter than they need to be, midday and in the middle of a secluded forest. Jean meets his eyes, unsure, before tugging his wrist gently away from Armin’s grasp and turning back towards the barracks. He takes a shuddering breath before steeling himself forward again, slower now, and Armin falls back into step beside him this time.

“Make sure you eat before we leave.” He mumbles, passing off his concern for non-chalance, and Armin feels a satisfied smile form on his lips at the tone. He can’t even bring himself to feel annoyed by the obvious change of topic.

“Sasha gave me something earlier.” He says, pulling the baguette from his side. Jean looks at him, pointed and judgemental at its untouched state, and he makes a point to take an overly zealous bite in retaliation. His jaw pops slightly with the effort as he chews, but his stomach is happy at the realization that this is his first piece of food all day. Jean is still staring at him as he eats, eyebrow raised in amusement, and so he holds out the remaining piece of baguette towards him. He looks skeptical for half a second at the offer before he’s bending down and biting his own share off right before they exit the winding pathway.

“Eat the rest yourself, god knows you need it.” He grumbles, mouth still working around a portion of bread, and Armin begrudgingly takes another obnoxiously big bite around a smile, happy to distract himself from the thought of what is to come.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Armin notices about camp is how quiet it is. There is the shuffle of impatient horses every so often, forced to rest with the sudden nightfall, and the chirping of crickets far off in the thick of the forest, but everything else is deafening silence. Night watch is on high alert, bones shaking with nervousness both from the cold and the impending threat of titans, but even amidst all their droopy eyelids and chattering teeth they, too, are disturbingly quiet like every other night.

Days ago, when Levi had rounded them all up, had pointed out the finely detailed plan – a product of both Erwin and Armin himself –he had forgot to consider all that came in between, had neglected to remember all that it took to reach the end of a mission as big as this one, all that one had to be willing to give up.

He finds himself wishing for the comfort of the fire again, long put out, and as he stretches his locked up fingers over the burnt out coals, he is disappointed to not find even the slightest bit of heat left. It is too risky to light it again, practically a beacon in the night for titans to find their group, and so Armin merely curls his fingers up within the fabric of his cloak, hoping to find warmth.

It is not his night to be on watch, but he can’t bring himself to sleep. He’s lost track of how long they’ve been out here, traveling for a reason that almost feels selfish to him now, and the buildup of dirt and grime underneath his fingernails, along his skin, is starting to make him feel like just another animal out here in the wild. He has gone days without proper sleep, too worried about being unarmed, too preoccupied with forcing himself not to dream and scare his comrades with his thrashing form, and he is unsure if his mind is playing tricks on him or not every time he hears the slightest bit of sound in the distance.

Levi is on alert tonight like every other night per his own request, pacing back and forth beside the hunched up, seemingly asleep form of Erwin. Armin knows at his core that acknowledging that, that having humanities strongest soldier on his side, he shouldn’t be worried - but goosebumps rise on his arms despite the knowledge.

Connie and Sasha are just to his left, tangled limb with limb in a snoring pile, and Armin envies the both of them for their continuous ease, their never-ending optimism in a world that was only ever made to tear them down. It makes him think of another time, another person, and his picks at the peeling leather on his boot, desperate for distraction as Jean stirs on his other side.

He knows that he is not sleeping. He has been a mess of tossing limbs and exasperated sighs all night, and Armin holds respect for him for even trying to look like a functional human amongst their comrades. He can’t bring himself to muster even that.

“Jean.” He whispers, voice sounding louder than it is in the quiet of the night, and Jean finally stills in response. He pulls himself up in sitting position, his hair sticking up haphazardly, and rubs his inner wrist against his eyes.

“Mm?” He mumbles, voice working around a fading yawn.

“Do you think I’m selfish?”

Jean blinks at him, eyes dazed from flitting in and out of sleep for so long, and then shoots him a puzzled look. “I think that’s the last thing you could ever be.”

Armin swallows. “I think I’m doing this entire thing for the wrong reasons.”

“Armin.” Jean levels, voice serious, all trace of doziness suddenly gone from his words. “We need this. _Humanity_ needs this. So what if this mission holds more importance to you than it does for the rest of us? So what, Armin? We’re here because this is going to help everyone. If it helps you too, then that’s just an added bonus.”

Armin pulls his knees forward, hugging them to his chest like a barricade, desperate to shield the erratic nervousness thumping in his chest. Jean is not wrong. This mission means a lot of things. A lot of new knowledge, a lot of new land, a lot of desperately needed resources. Deep down, Armin knew that he wouldn’t have proposed the idea if he didn’t know that – but he still couldn’t help but feel, subconsciously, that he was still trying to fulfill an age old promise. The only promise he didn’t want to ever see broken.

“I’m selfish, Armin.” Jean adds, mouth downturned into a scowl. “That kid who barrelled into military training all those years ago with no idea of what the real world was like – _that_ was selfish. That is not you.”

“That’s not you, either.” Armin murmurs, peering at what he can make out of Jean’s face in the dark. The deep set circles underneath his eyes are back again, illuminated in the moonlight, and Armin is disappointed to see their return. “Not anymore.” He adds, quietly, sure of his words. No, this is not the Jean he once knew. Taller, broader, hair longer with the passing time and a collection of scars – even outside his physical appearance, he is not the same. The world had made him gentler, braver, kinder in a way that Armin is suddenly thankful for.

He can only imagine how much this world has changed him, too. He is still not sure if it is for the better.

Jean makes an unamused grunt in the back of his throat, never sure of how to handle genuine compliments, before speaking again. “I can’t believe you’d even have the nerve to call yourself selfish when you’ve got blood on your hands because of me. You’ve saved my ass more times than I could even begin to count.”

“Don’t count, then.”

“ _Armin_.”

“Jean.” Armin warns, and Jean halts the rest of his words in his mouth. “Good man or bad, don’t you think at its core that was selfish too? Who am I to judge whose life is worth saving? But I did, didn’t I? I chose yours.”

Jean blinks wordlessly at him, caught between morality and what he was trying to prove, and Armin can only bring himself to silently stare back in return, a challenge poised in his eyes.

“You don’t always need to save someone physically to save them, Armin.” He whispers finally, hardly audible, and Armin can barely see the sad tug of his lips in the dark. He opens his mouth, intent on replying, but then Levi’s voice is breaking their quiet conversation from across the camp.

“ _Arlert_! _Kirstein_!” He hisses, and Armin feels Jean go stiff beside him. One of the girls on night watch who had dozed off jumps up suddenly at the sound of Levi’s voice, guilt plastered across her face before she realizes that the words aren’t directed at her.

Armin wishes silently that he had the same privilege.

“Y-yes sir?” He manages instead.

“Last I checked _neither_ of you were on night watch. If I hear another yap out of either one of you, I’m going to come over there and shut you up myself.” Levi hisses, words full with promise. It is more agitated than usual, but Armin can’t bring himself to blame him with the lack of sleep he’s gotten the past few days.

Armin and Jean share a look of quiet concern before Armin gives Levi an embarrassed sorry and lays back down, turning himself onto his side and cursing at the small space left between him and the entanglement that is Connie and Sasha.

“Tomorrow.” He murmurs, voice muffled against the dirt, intent on being quiet, and he can hear Jean move his head on the other side of him in a half-hearted nod. He thinks back to Jean’s same words days ago in the barn and realizes that he should of accepted them at the time, should of realized that worse tomorrows were to come.

“Tomorrow.” Jean whispers back, voice foreign around such gentleness. “For real.”

Armin spares one more glance at Levi, still pacing back and forth on the other side of the camp, and he allows his eyes to flutter shut with drowsiness. Sasha is breathing soft and slow beside him, and Jean seems to have given up on tossing himself from side to side. He finds his mind finally willing itself into unconsciousness, everything going fuzzy around the edges.

There are several minutes that feel like hours, heavy with silence and thick with the haze collecting in his head, and then he hears a soft voice at his back as everything fades into darkness:

“Thanks for choosing me anyway, Armin.”

 

* * *

 

It is nearing sunset when Armin finally spots it along the horizon, an endless stretch of crystal blue that has him heart slamming to a stop inside his chest at once. Even from the distance, he can see the sun reflecting off of its surface, the tips of its moving waves sparking into a million tiny gemstones as it laps at the surface. It is so much more than the inky drawings he’s spent all these years looking at, so much more than the fading edges of papyrus, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, intent on making sure he’s not just dreaming this.

When his eyes open again, eyelashes blurring gold into his vision with the light up above, the endless expanse of sea is just as it was moments ago. He is hit with the smell of salt, foreign to his senses, and if clarity were a sense it is exactly what pools into the haziness of his head as he breathes in the picture up ahead.

His horse comes to a standstill underneath him, as still as the breath caught in his throat, and he forces himself to move, freeing his feet from the leather stirrup. He slides off the worn saddle, his boots meeting the sturdy ground beneath him with a quiet thump, and even with his feet on the dirt he can’t shake the feeling that he’s caught within a dream. His entire body feels like it’s floating, and he has to curl his fingers into the thick of his horses mane to anchor himself, the inky black of his mane such a stark contrast against the pale of his fingers, so smooth in comparison to the goosebumps rising on his skin.

He can spot Levi up ahead, his own horse stalled underneath him, charcoal of its tail twitching impatiently back and forth. Erwin’s own stands obedient next to it, the white of its coat a contrast to the fine sheen of black covering Levi’s, and Armin can just make out the move of their lips from the distance, their heads ducked in quiet conversation. Levi gestures up ahead every so often, signaling the sea, and Erwin nods, eyebrows pinched, as he listens.

Armin is at a complete loss as to why the scene doesn’t seem to be capturing everyone else in the same way it is for him, but as he remembers the cart full of bodies trailing behind them, he realizes that most of the squad probably views it as a small reward for such another huge loss. He catches a flash of dirt crusted underneath his fingernail through the thick of mane and immediately stills his hand. His horse stirs, confused, and he slowly untangles his fingers, movements robotic.

There is a patch of dried blood underneath the nail on his thumb, a reminder of all they had to lose to get here, and he feels his stomach turn with queasiness.

A quiet whinny at his side startles him as if on cue, and Armin turns to see Jean’s mare, the milky brown of her eyes soft around the edges. It is odd, the feeling that stirs in his chest when he meets them, and suddenly it as though there was never a bout of queasiness at all. He lifts a hand, cautious, and she butts her snout into the palm of his hand gently, exhaling a sign that almost sounds wistful to Armin’s ears. He trails a thumb gently over a particularly large patch of white speckling across her nose, feeling the weirdest spark of familiarity at the touch, and then forces himself to lift his eyes up to the partner on her back.

“Sorry. She just does that sometimes.” Jean murmurs, thighs still wrapped securely around either side of the saddle. Despite the words, his gaze is still directed up ahead, focused on the approaching sea, and Armin can see the same wistful look in his eyes that he was without a doubt mirroring just minutes ago.

Armin blinks, caught off guard at being watched, and looks between Jean and back down at the mare. She is still nuzzling gently against the palm of his hand, eyes shut in relaxation, and when he finally pulls his eyes away Jean is looking at him again. “They say that they can sense what you’re feeling, or something.” He shrugs, feigning apathy.

Armin pretends to believe it for the sake of saving Jean the embarrassment. He has caught Jean talking to her in the middle of the night more times than he can count, always gentle, always sincere. He knows that he believes in the statement no matter how much he pretends to be unaffected by it. There is a reason that he chose her.

It is the same reason, Armin thinks, that he chose his own gelding. It was something about that inky black mane, that coat made from chestnut and unruly amber curl, the rare mismatch of eyes – one grey and waiting, the other an entire sea of determined teal and turquoise. It was something that screamed _home_.

It is the same sense of home he feels as he looks back towards the horizon, still illuminated in gold, and a feeling of belonging blooms in his chest.

“I can believe that.” He nods, his gelding stomping his foot in agreement at his side. He slides his hand away from the silky coat of Jean’s mare in favor of mounting his own horse again, and hears the mare let out a disappointed sigh at the loss of contact as he regains his balance.

His gelding whinnies loud beneath him, hoofs knocking the ground in excitement at his return, and Armin pulls gently at the reins, quieting his enthusiasm. He looks forward again and notices that Levi has stopped his private conversation with Erwin and is now staring back at him, eyes telling, and he glances back at Jean for reassurance.

“Guess we better go see it for real then, huh?” Jean says, mouth tipping into an almost-smile, and Armin nods in agreement, his gelding trotting briskly towards cerulean.

 

* * *

 

It is even more captivating up close. Even beneath the worn leather of his boots he can feel the grains of sand beneath his soles. There is an endless stream of forest beyond the water, flourishing and thick, and Armin can spot an array of unidentifiable trees that he remembers etched out on the pages of books from so long ago.

The last thing he expects is for the ocean to be so quiet, but it is. It stretches for miles, farther than he can see, and Armin is sure that even if he spent his entire life trailing it he couldn’t find the end. From far away it might have been all tumbling waves and glittering waters, but up close it is pale blue and clear, melting into murky darkness as it trails out, teal becoming indigo.

There is a wetness pricking at the edges of his tear ducts, reflective of the ocean, and the weight in his pocket burns even warmer now, his fingers twitching in anticipation. There is a wanting beneath the fabric, the request to be set free, and as he looks at the lapping water he isn’t sure if he is ready yet.

“Arlert.” Comes a thick voice behind him, and he turns to meet Levi’s gaze, tired and serious. Erwin is beside him again, silent and observing as always, and he feels his body straighten at attention, an automatic reaction to their presence. “We’re heading further up shore to scout for resources.” He continues, angling his head back towards the moving group in the distance. He can just make out the sight of Hanji, their ponytail bobbing freely in the wind as they send their horse on a wild stride forward. Connie and Sasha are not far behind, racing one another to keep up, their laughter chiming loud in the otherwise quiet air.

He watches them for a moment, lost in the scenery, before Erwin’s voice pulls him out of his own head. “We look forward to you joining us afterward.” He nods, arm resting behind his back, and then he is making his way over the bank and back towards his steed.

Armin watches his go for a moment before he realizes that Levi has stayed, face unreadable, and he feels panic begin to rise up in his chest.

“Sir,” He begins, persistent. “You don’t have to-“

“We’ll expect you back by nightfall.” Levi interrupts, voice firm, and Armin feels all will to argue leave his body. It is not a tone of compromise, and with it Levi turns on his heel, following after Erwin. It is such a small action, such a quiet show of understanding, and yet it makes the wetness in Armin’s eyes prick hotter, nearly escape from their confines.

He shakes it off, desperate not to cry – not yet – and looks back over the bank to where Jean is waiting, talking quietly to his mare. Armin can hear him mutter silent condolences, a hush of “easy, girl” and then there is the jingle of the reins as he slides the bit free from her mouth. Armin’s own horse is standing silent beside them, unsaddled and still, tail twitching anxiously. Jean gives his own one last stroke on the snout, face conflicted, and then he meets Armin’s gaze and makes his way over to the shore.

They stand in silence as they always do, both of them starring at the fading sunset, until Armin finds the courage to speak.

“I still can’t believe we found it.” He breathes, more to himself than Jean, and Jean makes an affirmative hum in the back of this throat. “I never thought I’d live to see it.”

“Well we’re here now, aren’t we? Alive as we’ll ever be.”

They were. Certainly, he couldn’t deny that. Everything was too real to pass off as another one of his dreams. It was exactly what he had always wanted, but when he thought too long about the circumstances of it, he realized that it was never something that he wanted like this.

Jean was his best friend, the person he had come to put all of his trust in over the years, but it still felt wrong for him to be the one standing here at his side.

“I don’t feel like I’m the one who deserves to be here.” He admits, wishing the current were stronger, wishing the ocean would wash away all his words.

“I think you deserve it more than anyone, Armin.”

Armin looks at Jean, timid, but there is nothing but sincerity flashing across his face. His eyebrows are drawn together at the middle and serious, and Armin feels bad for not allowing himself to believe the words.

“I’m the weak one.” He confesses, voice breaking around the edges. “I was always the weak one. I’m not the one who deserves to be here.”

“That’s not you.” Jean says, quiet like he’s as afraid to say the words as Armin is to hear them. “Not anymore.”

Armin feels the first rush of hot wetness escape from his eyes, trailing down his cheek in a scalding path, and he has to hiccup to keep anything else from escaping, to keep himself from being affected too badly by hearing his own words mirrored back at him.

Jean was not selfish anymore. He was not weak. Maybe they both weren’t made up of anything they used to be so long ago.

“I couldn’t even save them, in the end.” He forces out, teeth grit from the effort of keeping the tears at bay. His throat burns.

“No one could.” Jean whispers, voice hoarse, and Armin refuses to look at him, too afraid of what he’ll find.

“He said he’d die for this, and he did.” He hiccups, voice breaking with the force of tears. He is a sobbing mess, his body trembling, and he doubts Jean can even make out his words anymore. “And she promised that’d she’d die for him, and she did. What is there left for me to die for?”

“Armin-“ Jean begins, voice cracking, and the sound of tears in his voice only makes Armin sob harder, his knees meeting the sand with force. He is far too tired to hold himself up anymore. He has been doing nothing but holding himself up for years.

“I loved them.” He gasps. “They were my family. They were the only thing I had.”

The stretch of blue is nothing but blurry colours in front of him now, and he can’t stop himself from comparing them to Eren’s eyes, to the freezing touch of Mikasa’s hands. He’d give up the entire ocean to have them instead.

Jean collapses beside him, the sand disturbed beneath his fall, and he can see the quiet tremble of his lip through all of the blur, the puffiness rising in his eyes.

“Love is not an easy thing to lose.” He mumbles, and Armin barely catches it over the sound of his own sobs.

“Sometimes, I feel bad.” Armin admits, calming down enough to wipe his face against his jacket. “I always place my burden on your shoulders, but maybe, in retrospect, that’s unfair. In the end, I didn’t feel the same about them as you felt about-” He begins, letting the words trail off as Jean’s face furrows in panic. He is blinking at him wildly, nervous, and laughter bubbles up in Armin’s throat despite everything.

“Calm down, I’m not going to tell anyone.” He promises, sniffling around the words. He was pretty sure everyone knew already, anyway – but he’d spare Jean’s ego from knowing that.

“I-“ Jean begins, tears replaced by a high rise of color on his cheekbones. It looks like he’s going to say something for a moment, mouth grasping the air for syllables, but he just ends up shaking his head furiously instead. “Love is love, Armin. No matter the kind.” Is what he settles on, looking away from his gaze as soon as the words tumble out of his mouth.

“Yes.” Armin mumbles, directing his gaze towards the tide lapping at his fingertips. “It is, isn’t it?”

He thinks to the weight in his pocket again, heavy against the plush of his thigh, and pulls himself to his feet. There is the dusting of sand along his knees, the greater part of his boot, but he ignores it. The sun is almost gone in the distance, slipping underneath the sea, a reminder that they are almost out of time. He has to do this now, whether he is ready or not.

He reaches into the fabric, fingers shaking against his will, and pulls two patches from the depth, stained and scattered with loose strings. They feel even heavier in his palm, two shining emblems of courage and bravery, an intertwining wing of grey and blue. He thinks back to turquoise eyes and stony gazes and thinks that there couldn’t have been a better color choice for all that they represent. When he presses them to his lips, shaking and chapped, it is a silent thank you.

Mikasa’s is lowered first, heart a desperate pull as the water wills it out of his grip. The waves cradle it gently, carrying it out of his reach, further toward the indigo depths, and this time when the tears cascade down Armin’s cheeks they feel much more like relief.

This was not her dream, but Armin can’t help but feel as though she belongs here anyway. There is no place he can imagine being without her, no dream he can imagine accomplishing, and so he is left silently wishing that she can find something worth wishing for out there for herself.

He is as gentle as the waters as he lowers Eren’s patch into the cold alongside her, a silent request that she look after him out here, too. They swirl around each other for a moment, lost in the dance of the current, and Armin takes the moment to wipe his eyes again before they can blur around the edges. He doesn’t want to chance missing even a second of this.

He has words for Eren, has mapped out exactly what he’d say in this moment, but they seem to get lost in the haze of his mind when he tries to recall them. In the end, he is just left hoping that this is everything that he dreamed of. That he understands that, for now, this is all that Armin can do for him – that he would rather he be by his side if he had the choice.

Jean stirs at his side at his silence, concerned, but Armin can’t even bring himself to spare him a glance. He does not want to pretend that he is okay. He is anything but.

It is an agonizing moment of watching them drift further into the darkness, of fighting the instinct to reach out and grab them again, before they float out of view all together.

“I’ll see you both again one day.” He promises, the words directed at nothing but water now, and he shuts his eyes as another stream of tears leak down his face. For the first time in a long time, he feels at peace with himself.

He wants to stay like that forever, but he can’t block out the sounds of the real world moving around him. It feels like hours, but he finally manages to crack his eyes open again. There are tiny droplets clinging to his eyelashes, and when he focuses on the ocean again it is nothing but endless indigo, the sky equally as void of color. He turns to Jean, forever thankful for his patient silence, and finds his eyes rimmed red in the moonlight.

“We should go, Armin. It’s getting late. ” Jean suggests, voice devoid of emotion, but Armin shakes his head.

He is not the only one who has to let go.

“Please, Armin.” He begs, and the pull in Armin’s heart at the tone almost makes him give in. Almost.

“Jean.” He says instead, voice firm despite all of the tears.

Jean’s face twists into a collection of pain, fear and anger and sadness scattering across his face and morphing into one downcast expression, and Armin’s heart sinks. No matter how much he needs this, they both need this, it is not easy. He wishes, somehow, that he could shoulder some of the burden. That somehow taking it would not make him collapse underneath all the added weight on top of his own. He knows, though, that Jean wouldn’t allow him to take it even if he could.

Jean’s fingers twitch, unsure of what to do, and then he is taking a shuttering breath and reaching into the inside of his jacket. There is the ripping of fabric, the pull of stitches, and then in Jean’s hand, a faded patch made up of crossing swords. Jean looks down at it, eyebrows pinching together, throat bobbing furiously, and Armin feels the need to turn his head away.

He concentrates on a patch of sand near his foot, darkened by the high tide, and for a moment he, too, wishes he could be pulled along with it. He can hear Jean at his side, trying his best to cover up his voice, but there is a quiet whimper every so often, and Armin feels his eyes growing wet again just from the sound.

It is startling, just how much pain can be conveyed through one single octave.

He can’t take it anymore, so instead he presses a reassuring hand against the hunch of Jean’s shoulder and watches the small patch drift out of his fingers, get swept up by the sea. No words leave Jean’s mouth at its departure, but he knows well enough that his eyes are burning a million into the very current in front of them.

He waits, fingers gripping tightly around the fabric of Jean’s jacket, going cold from the dropping temperature, until he can hear the telltale sound of horse hooves approaching. He takes one last look towards the sea, undisturbed as if they had never been there at all, as if it had no idea of what it was just given, and then gives Jean’s shoulder one last squeeze.

“Let’s go.” He whispers, and Jean nods shakily below him.

 

* * *

 

Levi decides to make the travel back at night, intent on saving time, and everyone is quiet as they ride in formation into darkness. The wagons trailing them are loud, weighed down with newfound treasures, and their wheels rattle unsteadily against the uneven terrain.

It’s been a long time without proper rest, and it shows even in the pace of the horses beneath his comrades. Everyone is drowsy eyed and sheepish, the bags under their eyes amplified in the moonlight, but Levi leads on with an energy that both baffles and impresses Armin.

Jean is quiet at his side, eyes puffy and red rimmed, a reflection of his own, and his grip on the reins of his horse are slack with tiredness. Armin feels it too, settling deep within his bones, but he can’t help but feel as though a giant weight has been lifted off his shoulders. It is an odd feeling, like he has been drained of all he used to be, but for the first time in a long time he feels like a real person instead of a shell.

He is older. He can feel it in the stretch of muscle on his thighs, can feel it in the cracking joints along his back, is reminded of it from the heavy weight of hair sitting on his neck. It is the first time that he has acknowledged it, accepted it, and he is surprised to recognize that it does not feel of defeat like he always imagined it would.

The past is important, holds the things most dear to him within it, but for the first time he is able to recognize the significant of the present, the importance of being in it.

“Armin.” Jean speaks up, voice hushed alongside him, disturbing his thought, and Armin is surprised that he is the first one to break the silence for once.

“Mm?” He manages, all that he can muster up against his drowsiness. His eyes threaten to flutter closed but he shakes his head, intent on listening, and tightens his grip on the reins to shake himself out of it.

“For a long time…I didn’t think anything was worth it. Love, fighting, _friendship_ – I didn’t see the point of getting invested in something that would only leave me disappointed. I thought it was safer to just take the easy route out, to isolate myself so nothing could hurt me, to be content with my own company – but in the end, that all proved itself to be incredibly lonely.” He tilts his head back, throat bobbing as shadows dance across it, and Armin sees him squint his eyes, steeling himself, before he continues. “I decided a while ago that I didn’t want to be like that anymore. I think that, when it comes down to it, it’s better to know what it’s like to hurt than to never know what it’s like to be happy.”

A tug of a smile dances at the edges of Armin’s lips, and he indulges it for once, feeling warm despite all of the cold air at his back. “I think that’s a good way to live your life.” He admits.

Jean clears his throat, embarrassed, and opens his mouth to speak again. “You’re the one who taught me that. After everything, you were the one who made me want to believe again. I don’t know how I came to deserve to be able to call you a friend, but thank you. Despite everything, thank you for being my friend, Armin.”

“Jean-“ Armin begins, caught off guard by such a brash display of feelings from him, but Jean cuts him off quickly, shaking his head.

“I’m not trying to be sappy. That wasn’t my intent. I – uh. Shit. Listen, I’m not good with words, okay? So do me a solid and bear with me here. When we were back there, in the midst of everything, you asked me what you have left to die for. In the moment, I didn’t have the answer for you, but I do now and I want you to listen to it because it’s important, okay? I know I spew a lot of shit but this one is important.”

Armin nods, affirmative, all that he can bring himself to do in the moment, and he hopes silently that Jean can make it out in the darkness. “I’m listening.” He adds, weakly, just to be sure.

“You don’t have anything left to die for, Armin, because you have everything to live for instead. If Eren died for all of _this_ – whatever _this_ is-“ He hisses, throwing his hand around at the darkness. “And Mikasa died for Eren, then you live for them both – okay? That’s what you do, Armin. You live for what they couldn’t.”

“Jean-“ Armin tries again, tears escaping down his cheeks, but Jean is shaking his head again, furiously, the sound of tears collecting in his throat as he tries to continue.

“Both of us, okay? Both of us are going to live through this _fucking shit_ for them. For Eren, for Mikasa, for _Marco_ \- for everyone else who died and for everyone who will die in this god forsaken place. We’re going to get out of here, Armin. You and I, we’re going to find a way to end all of this. Promise me that. If you promise me nothing, promise me that.” There are tears streaming down Jean’s face full force as he gets the last of his words out, his voice a mess of hiccups and anger, and Armin can’t bring himself to do anything but stare at his wild expression as his own tears continue to leak hot from his eyes.

It has been a long time since he’s thought about promises. Too long, maybe. He has spent a long time trying to fulfill the only one he had ever believed in – it is only just now that he realizes that maybe he had fulfilled it long ago.

It had never been about the ocean. The tales of fiery waters and the lands made up of nothing but ice had been merely fantasies at the end of it all. It was a promise that extended much further than that. It was the promise to believe in something when it felt like there was nothing more to believe in.

The ocean was beautiful, but its meaning was what was important.

He _had_ been the weak one, all those years ago, a trembling boy who had stumbled upon something that, in the moment, he didn’t feel like he deserved. Eren and Mikasa were something that he never had before, could never dream up even if he used his wildest imagination. He had been the weak one – but Eren and Mikasa were what had made him strong, what had taught him to keep fighting when he felt like giving up.

They had not gone down without a fight.

They were a symbol of everything that he lacked, the ones who taught him love and friendship and persistence, the ones who made him feel like he had a purpose, that he could stand up on his own. No ocean could compare to that.

In the end, their promise to each other had simply been to fight. To push forward when they felt like doing nothing but collapsing. Isn’t that what he had been doing all of these years without them?

He feels his silence hovering in the air, a thick sheet of tension in the space between him and Jean, and he pulls himself out of his own head to look at him again, is not surprised to find him waiting.

Yes, he is not afraid of promises. Not anymore.

“What do you say we live?” Jean prompts, nervous, and Armin feels guilty for making him wait too long. For always making him wait too long. He extends a fist, trembling in the space between them, hovering above the quick movement of hooves beneath them. “What do you say we keep fighting for everyone who couldn’t?”

Armin thinks of Eren and his ceaseless courage, to Mikasa and her endless love, to Marco and his never-ending kindness, and he does not even have to think about his next words, does not even have to consider their meaning.

“We live.” He promises, and when he bumps his fist against Jean’s, this time there is not a moment of hesitation.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for your support, and thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> If you're looking for more of me, you can find me: [here](http://alcheminx.flavors.me)


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